The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes 8
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Resident Patient
Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of
Memoirs with which I have endeavored to illustrate a
few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty
which I have experienced in picking out examples which
shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those
cases in which Holmes has performed some tour de force
of analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the
value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the
facts themselves have often been so slight or so
commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying
them before the public.
On the other hand, it has
frequently happened that he has been concerned in some
research where the facts have been of the most
remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share
which he has himself taken in determining their causes
has been less pronounced than I, as his biographer,
could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled
under the heading of A Study in Scarlet, and that
other later one connected with the loss of the Gloria
Scott, may serve as examples of this Scylla and
Charybdis which are forever threatening the historian.
It may be that in the business of which I am now about
to write the part which my friend played is not
sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of
circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring
myself to omit it entirely from this series.
It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds
were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa,
reading and re-reading a letter which he had received
by the morning post. For myself, my term of service
in India had trained me to stand heat better than
cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But
the paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen.
Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the
glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea.
A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country
nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him.
He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of
people, with his filaments stretching out and running
through them, responsive to every little rumor or
suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature
found no place among his many gifts, and his only
change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer
of the town to track down his brother of the country.
Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation,
I had tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back
in my chair, I fell into a brown study. Suddenly my
companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts.
"You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a
very preposterous way of settling a dispute."
"Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then, suddenly
realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my
soul, I sat up in my chair and stared at him in blank
amazement.
"What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond
anything which I could have imagined."
He laughed heartily at my perplexity.
"You remember," said he, "that some little time ago,
when I read you the passage in one of Poe's sketches,
in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thought
of his companion, you were inclined to treat the
matter as a mere tour de force of the author. On my
remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing
the same thing you expressed incredulity."
"Oh, no!"
"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but
certainly with your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw
down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I
was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it
off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof
that I had been in rapport with you."
But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example
which you read to me," said I, "the reasoner drew his
conclusions from the actions of the man whom he
observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a
heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on.
But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what
clues can I have given you?"
"You do yourself an injustice. The features are given
to man as the means by which he shall express his
emotions, and yours are faithful servants."
"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts
from my features?"
"Your features, and especially your eyes. Perhaps you
cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then I will tell you. After throwing down your
paper, which was the action which drew my attention to
you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant
expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your
newly-framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by
the alteration in your face that a train of thought
had been started. But it did not lead very far. Your
eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry
Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books.
You then glanced up at the wall, and of course your
meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the
portrait were framed it would just cover that bare
space and correspond with Gordon's picture over
there."
"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.
"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your
thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard
across as if you were studying the character in his
features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you
continued to look across, and your face was
thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of
Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could not
do this without thinking of the mission which he
undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the
Civil War, for I remember you expressing your
passionate indignation at the way in which he was
received by the more turbulent of our people. You
felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not
think of Beecher without thinking of that also.
"When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to
the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set,
your eyes sparkled, and your hands clinched, I was
positive that you were indeed thinking of the
gallantry which was shown by both sides in that
desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew
sadder; you shook your head. You were dwelling upon
the sadness and horror and useless waste of life.
Your hand stole towards your own old wound, and a
smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the
ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your
mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was
preposterous, and was glad to find that all my
deductions had been correct."
"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have
explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as
before."
"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure
you. I should not have intruded it upon your
attention had you not shown some incredulity the other
day. But the evening has brought a breeze with it.
What do you say to a ramble through London?"
I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly
acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about
together, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of
life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the
Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen
observance of detail and subtle power of inference
held me amused and enthralled. It was ten o'clock
before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham was
waiting at our door.
"Hum! A doctor's general practitioner, I perceive,"
said Holmes. "Not been long in practice, but has had
a good deal to do. Come to consult us, I fancy!
Lucky we came back!"
I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to
be able to follow his reasoning, and to see that the
nature and state of the various medical instruments in
the wicker basket which hung in the lamplight inside
the brougham had given him the data for his swift
deduction. The light in our window above showed that
this late visit was indeed intended for us. With some
curiosity as to what could have sent a brother medico
to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into our
sanctum.
A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up
from a chair by the fire as we entered. His age may
not have been more than three or four and thirty, but
his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a
life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of
his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that
of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand
which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that
of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was
quiet and sombre a black frock-coat, dark trousers,
and a touch of color about his necktie.
"Good-evening, doctor," said Holmes, cheerily. "I am
glad to see that you have only been waiting a very few
minutes."
"You spoke to my coachman, then?"
"No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me.
Pray resume your seat and let me know how I can serve
you."
"My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor,
"and I live at 403 Brook Street."
"Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure
nervous lesions?" I asked.
His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that
his work was known to me.
"I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was
quite dead," said he. "My publishers gave me a most
discouraging account of its sale. You are yourself, I
presume, a medical man?"
"A retired army surgeon."
"My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I
should wish to make it an absolute specialty, but, of
course, a man must take what he can get at first.
This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time
is. The fact is that a very singular train of events
has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and
tonight they came to such a head that I felt it was
quite impossible for me to wait another hour before
asking for your advice and assistance."
Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. "You are
very welcome to both," said he. "Pray let me have a
detailed account of what the circumstances are which
have disturbed you."
"One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr.
Trevelyan, "that really I am almost ashamed to mention
them. But the matter is so inexplicable, and the
recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I
shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what
is essential and what is not.
"I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my
own college career. I am a London University man, you
know, and I am sure that you will not think that I am
unduly singing my own praises if I say that my student
career was considered by my professors to be a very
promising one. After I had graduated I continued to
devote myself to research, occupying a minor position
in King's College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough
to excite considerable interest by my research into
the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the
Bruce Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on
nervous lesions to which your friend has just alluded.
I should not go too far if I were to say that there
was a general impression at that time that a
distinguished career lay before me.
"But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of
capital. As you will readily understand, a specialist
who aims high is compelled to start in one of a dozen
streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all of which
entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses.
Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared
to keep himself for some years, and to hire a
presentable carriage and horse. To do this was quite
beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy
I might in ten years' time save enough to enable me to
put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected
incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.
"This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of
Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me. He
came up to my room one morning, and plunged into
business in an instant.
" 'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so
distinguished a career and won a great prize lately?'
said he.
"I bowed.
" 'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find
it to your interest to do so. You have all the
cleverness which makes a successful man. Have you the
tact?'
"I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the
question.
" 'I trust that I have my share,' I said.
" 'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'
" 'Really, sir!' I cried.
" 'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound to
ask. With all these qualities, why are you not in
practice?'
"I shrugged my shoulders.
" 'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way. 'It's
the old story. More in your brains than in your
pocket, eh? What would you say if I were to start you
in Brook Street?'
"I stared at him in astonishment.
" 'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried.
'I'll be perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you
it will suit me very well. I have a few thousands to
invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in you.'
" 'But why?' I gasped.
" 'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and
safer than most.'
" 'What am I to do , then?'
" 'I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay
the maids, and run the whole place. All you have to
do is just to wear out your chair in the
consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and
everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters
of what you earn, and you keep the other quarter for
yourself.'
"This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which
the man Blessington approached me. I won't weary you
with the account of how we bargained and negotiated.
It ended in my moving into the house next Lady-day,
and starting in practice on very much the same
conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to
live with me in the character of a resident patient.
His heart was weak, it appears, and he needed constant
medical supervision.
"He turned the two best rooms of
the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for
himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning
company and very seldom going out. His life was
irregular, but in one respect he was regularity
itself. Every evening, at the same hour, he walked
into the consulting-room, examined the books, put down
five and three-pence for every guinea that I had
earned, and carried the rest off to the strong-box in
his own room.
"I may say with confidence that he never had occasion
to regret his speculation. From the first it was a
success. A few good cases and the reputation which I
had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the
front, and during the last few years I have made him a
rich man.
"So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my
relations with Mr. Blessington. It only remains for
me now to tell you what has occurred to bring me here
tonight.
"Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as
it seemed to me, a state of considerable agitation.
He spoke of some burglary which, he said, had been
committed in the West End, and he appeared, I
remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it,
declaring that a day should not pass before we should
add stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a
week he continued to be in a peculiar state of
restlessness, peering continually out of the windows,
and ceasing to take the short walk which had usually
been the prelude to his dinner.
From his manner it
struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or
somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he
became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the
subject. Gradually, as time passed, his fears
appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former
habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable
state of prostration in which he now lies.
"What happened was this. Two days ago I received the
letter which I now read to you. Neither address nor
date is attached to it.
A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,
would be glad to avail himself of the
professional assistance of Dr. Percy Trevelyan. He
has been for some years a victim to cataleptic
attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is
an authority. He proposes to call at about quarter
past six tomorrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will make
it convenient to be at home.
"This letter interested me deeply, because the chief
difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness
of the disease. You may believe, than, that I was in
my consulting-room when, at the appointed hour, the
page showed in the patient.
He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and
common-place by no means the conception one forms of
a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by the
appearance of his companion. This was a tall young
man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face,
and the limbs and chest of a Hercules. He had his
hand under the other's arm as they entered, and helped
him to a chair with a tenderness which one would
hardly have expected from his appearance.
" 'You will excuse my coming in, doctor,' said he to
me, speaking English with a slight lisp. 'This is my
father, and his health is a matter of the most
overwhelming importance to me.'
"I was touched by this filial anxiety. 'You would,
perhaps, care to remain during the consultation?' said
I.
" 'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of
horror. 'It is more painful to me than I can express.
If I were to see my father in one of these dreadful
seizures I am convinced that I should never survive
it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally
sensitive one. With your permission, I will remain in
the waiting-room while you go into my father's case.'
"To this, of course, I assented, and the young man
withdrew. The patient and I then plunged into a
discussion of his case, of which I took exhaustive
notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and
his answers were frequently obscure, which I
attributed to his limited acquaintance with our
language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he
ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and
on my turning towards him I was shocked to see that he
was sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at me
with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again
in the grip of his mysterious malady.
"My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of
pity and horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of
professional satisfaction. I made notes of my
patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity
of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was
nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions,
which harmonized with my former experiences.
"I had
obtained good results in such cases by the inhalation
of nitrate of amyl, and the present seemed an
admirable opportunity of testing its virtues. The
bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving my
patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it.
There was some little delay in finding it five
minutes, let us say and then I returned. Imagine my
amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone.
"Of course, my first act was to run into the
waiting-room. The son had gone also. The hall door
had been closed, but not shut. My page who admits
patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits
downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I
ring the consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing,
and the affair remained a complete mystery. Mr.
Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards,
but I did not say anything to him upon the subject,
for, to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late
of holding as little communication with him as
possible.
"Well, I never thought that I should see anything more
of the Russian and his son, so you can imagine my
amazement when, at the very same hour this evening,
they both came marching into my consulting-room, just
as they had done before.
" 'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my
abrupt departure yesterday, doctor,' said my patient.
" 'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,'
said I.
" 'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I
recover from these attacks my mind is always very
clouded as to all that has gone before. I woke up in
a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way
out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you
were absent.'
" 'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass the
door of the waiting-room, naturally thought that the
consultation had come to an end. It was not until we
had reached home that I began to realize the true
state of affairs.'
" 'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done
except that you puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir,
would kindly step into the waiting-room I shall be
happy to continue our consultation which was brought
to so abrupt an ending.'
" 'For half an hour or so I discussed that old
gentleman's symptoms with him, and then, having
prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the arm of
his son.
"I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose
this hour of the day for his exercise. He came in
shortly afterwards and passed upstairs. An instant
later I heard him running down, and he burst into my
consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.
" 'Who has been in my room?' he cried.
" 'No one,' said I.
" 'It's a lie! He yelled. 'Come up and look!'
"I passed over the grossness of his language, as he
seemed half out of his mind with fear. When I went
upstairs with him he pointed to several footprints
upon the light carpet.
" 'D'you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.
"They were certainly very much larger than any which
he could have made, and were evidently quite fresh.
It rained hard this afternoon, as you know, and my
patients were the only people who called. It must
have been the case, then, that the man in the
waiting-room had, for some unknown reason, while I was
busy with the other, ascended to the room of my
resident patient. Nothing has been touched or taken,
but there were the footprints to prove that the
intrusion was an undoubted fact.
"Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter
than I should have thought possible, though of course
it was enough to disturb anybody's peace of mind. He
actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and I could
hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his
suggestion that I should come round to you, and of
course I at once saw the propriety of it, for
certainly the incident is a very singular one, though
he appears to completely overrate its importance. If
you would only come back with me in my brougham, you
would at least be able to soothe him, though I can
hardly hope that you will be able to explain this
remarkable occurrence."
Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative
with an intentness which showed me that his interest
was keenly aroused. His face was as impassive as
ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his
eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from
his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the
doctor's tale.
As our visitor concluded, Holmes
sprang up without a word, handed me my hat, picked his
own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the
door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped
at the door of the physician's residence in Brook
Street, one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which
one associates with a West-End practice. A small page
admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad,
well-carpeted stair.
But a singular interruption brought us to a
standstill. The light at the top was suddenly whisked
out, and from the darkness came a reedy, quivering
voice.
"I have a pistol," it cried. "I give you my word that
I'll fire if you come any nearer."
"This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried
Dr. Trevelyan.
"Oh, then it is you, doctor," said the voice, with a
great heave of relief. "But those other gentlemen,
are they what they pretend to be?"
We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the
darkness.
"Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last.
"You can come up, and I am sorry if my precautions
have annoyed you."
He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before
us a singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well
as his voice, testified to his jangled nerves. He was
very fat, but had apparently at some time been much
fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose
pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of
a sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to
bristle up with the intensity of his emotion. In his
hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his
pocket as we advanced.
"Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am sure I am
very much obliged to you for coming round. No one
ever needed your advice more than I do. I suppose
that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most
unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms."
"Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are these two men Mr.
Blessington, and why do they wish to molest you?"
"Well, well," said the resident patient, in a nervous
fashion, "of course it is hard to say that. You can
hardly expect me to answer that, Mr. Holmes."
"Do you mean that you don't know?"
"Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness
to step in here."
He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and
comfortably furnished.
"You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box
at the end of his bed. "I have never been a very rich
man, Mr. Holmes never made but one investment in my
life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I don't
believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr.
Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in
that box, so you can understand what it means to me
when unknown people force themselves into my rooms."
Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way
and shook his head.
"I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive
me," said he.
"But I have told you everything."
Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust.
"Good-night, Dr. Trevelyan," said he.
"And no advice for me?" cried Blessington, in a
breaking voice.
"My advice to your, sir, is to speak the truth."
A minute later we were in the street and walking for
home. We had crossed Oxford Street and were half way
down Harley Street before I could get a word from my
companion.
"Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand,
Watson," he said at last. "It is an interesting case,
too, at the bottom of it."
"I can make little of it," I confessed.
"Well, it is quite evident that there are two
men more, perhaps, but at least two who are
determined for some reason to get at this fellow
Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on
the first and on the second occasion that young man
penetrated to Blessington's room, while his
confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor
from interfering."
"And the catalepsy?"
"A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should
hardly dare to hint as much to our specialist. It is
a very easy complaint to imitate. I have done it
myself."
"And then?"
"By the purest chance Blessington was out on each
occasion. Their reason for choosing so unusual an
hour for a consultation was obviously to insure that
there should be no other patient in the waiting-room.
It just happened, however, that this hour coincided
with Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show
that they were not very well acquainted with his daily
routine. Of course, if they had been merely after
plunder they would at least have made some attempt to
search for it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye
when it is his own skin that he is frightened for. It
is inconceivable that this fellow could have made two
such vindictive enemies as these appear to be without
knowing of it. I hold it, therefore, to be certain
that he does know who these men are, and that for
reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just
possible that tomorrow may find him in a more
communicative mood."
"Is there not one alternative," I suggested,
"grotesquely improbably, no doubt, but still just
conceivable? Might the whole story of the cataleptic
Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr.
Trevelyan's, who has, for his own purposes, been in
Blessington's rooms?"
I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile
at this brilliant departure of mine.
"My dear fellow," said he, "it was one of the first
solutions which occurred to me, but I was soon able to
corroborate the doctor's tale. This young man has
left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it quite
superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had
made in the room. When I tell you that his shoes were
square-toed instead of being pointed like
Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third
longer than the doctor's, you will acknowledge that
there can be no doubt as to his individuality. But we
may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if we do
not hear something further from Brook Street in the
morning."
* * * * * * * * * * *
Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in
a dramatic fashion. At half-past seven next morning,
in the first glimmer of daylight, I found him standing
by my bedside in his dressing-gown.
"There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.
"What's the matter, then?"
"The Brook Street business."
"Any fresh news?"
"Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the
blind. "Look at this on a sheet from a note-book,
For God's sake come at once P. T.
"and scrawled in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard put to it
when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for
it's an urgent call."
In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the
physician's house. He came running out to meet us
with a face of horror.
"Oh, such a business!" he cried, with his hands to his
temples.
"What then?"
"Blessington has committed suicide!"
Holmes whistled.
"Yes, he hanged himself during the night."
We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into
what was evidently his waiting-room.
"I really hardly know what I am doing," he cried.
"The police are already upstairs. It has shaken me
most dreadfully."
"When did you find it out?"
"He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every
morning. When the maid entered, about seven, there
the unfortunate fellow was hanging in the middle of
the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which
the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off
from the top of the very box that he showed us
yesterday."
Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.
"With your permission," said he at last, "I should
like to go upstairs and look into the matter."
We both ascended, followed by the doctor.
It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the
bedroom door. I have spoken of the impression of
flabbiness which this man Blessington conveyed. As he
dangled from the hook it was exaggerated and
intensified until he was scarce human in his
appearance. The neck was drawn out like a plucked
chicken's, making the rest of him seem the more obese
and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in
his long night-dress, and his swollen ankles and
ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath it.
Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who
was taking notes in a pocket-book.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he, heartily, as my friend
entered, "I am delighted to see you."
"Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't
think me an intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of
the events which led up to this affair?"
"Yes, I heard something of them."
"Have you formed any opinion?"
"As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of
his senses by fright. The bed has been well slept in,
you see. There's his impression deep enough. It's
about five in the morning, you know, that suicides are
most common. That would be about his time for hanging
himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate
affair."
"I should say that he has been dead about three hours,
judging by the rigidity of the muscles," said I.
"Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked
Holmes.
"Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand
stand. Seems to have smoked heavily during the night,
too. Here are four cigar-ends that I picked out of
the fireplace."
"Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"
"No, I have seen none."
"His cigar-case, then?"
"Yes, it was in his coat-pocket."
Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it
contained.
"Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of
the peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from
their East Indian colonies. They are usually wrapped
in straw, you know, and are thinner for their length
than any other brand." He picked up the four ends and
examined them with his pocket-lens.
"Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two
without," said he. "Two have been cut by a not very
sharp knife, and two have had the ends bitten off by a
set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide, Mr.
Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded
murder."
"Impossible!" cried the inspector.
"And why?"
"Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a
fashion as by hanging him?"
"That is what we have to find out."
"How could they get in?"
"Through the front door."
"It was barred in the morning."
"Then it was barred after them."
"How do you know?"
"I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be
able to give you some further information about it."
He went over to the door, and turning the lock he
examined it in his methodical way. Then he took out
the key, which was on the inside, and inspected that
also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the
mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in
turn examined, until at last he professed himself
satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector
cut down the wretched object and laid it reverently
under a sheet.
"How about this rope?" he asked.
"It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a
large coil from under the bed. "He was morbidly
nervous of fire, and always kept this beside him, so
that he might escape by the window in case the stairs
were burning."
"That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes,
thoughtfully. "Yes, the actual facts are very plain,
and I shall be surprised if by the afternoon I cannot
give you the reasons for them as well. I will take
this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the
mantelpiece, as it may help me in my inquiries."
"But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.
"Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of
events," said Holmes. "There were three of them in
it: the young man, the old man, and a third, to whose
identity I have no clue. The first two, I need hardly
remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian
count and his son, so we can give a very full
description of them. They were admitted by a
confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a
word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the
page, who, as I understand, has only recently come
into your service, Doctor."
"The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan;
"the maid and the cook have just been searching for
him."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,"
said he. "The three men having ascended the stairs,
which they did on tiptoe, the elder man first, the
younger man second, and the unknown man in the rear"
"My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.
"Oh, there could be no question as to the
superimposing of the footmarks. I had the advantage
of learning which was which last night. They
ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of
which they found to be locked. With the help of a
wire, however, they forced round the key. Even
without the lens you will perceive, by the scratches
on this ward, where the pressure was applied.
"On entering the room their first proceeding must have
been to gag Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep,
or he may have been so paralyzed with terror as to
have been unable to cry out. These walls are thick,
and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time
to utter one, was unheard.
"Having secured him, it is evident to me that a
consultation of some sort was held. Probably it was
something in the nature of a judicial proceeding. It
must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
these cigars were smoke. The older man sat in that
wicker chair; it was he who used the cigar-holder.
The younger man sat over yonder; he knocked his ash
off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow
paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright
in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely
certain.
"Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and
hanging him. The matter was so prearranged that it is
my belief that they brought with them some sort of
block or pulley which might serve as a gallows. That
screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for
fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally
saved themselves the trouble. Having finished their
work they made off, and the door was barred behind
them by their confederate."
We had all listened with the deepest interest to this
sketch of the night's doings, which Holmes had deduced
from signs so subtle and minute that, even when he had
pointed them out to us, we could scarcely follow him
in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on the
instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes
and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast.
"I'll be back by three," said he, when we had finished
our meal. "Both the inspector and the doctor will
meet me here at that hour, and I hope by that time to
have cleared up any little obscurity which the case
may still present."
* * * * * * * * * * *
Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was
a quarter to four before my friend put in an
appearance. From his expression as he entered,
however, I could see that all had gone well with him.
"Any news, Inspector?"
"We have got the boy, sir."
"Excellent, and I have got the men."
"You have got them!" we cried, all three.
"Well, at least I have got their identity. This
so-called Blessington is, as I expected, well known at
headquarters, and so are his assailants. Their names
are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."
"The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.
"Precisely," said Holmes.
"Then Blessington must have been Sutton."
"Exactly," said Holmes.
"Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said the
inspector.
But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in
bewilderment.
"You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank
business," said Holmes. "Five men were in it these
four and a fifth called Cartwright. Tobin, the
care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got away
with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They
were all five arrested, but the evidence against them
was by no means conclusive. This Blessington or
Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned
informer.
On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and
the other three got fifteen years apiece. When they
got out the other day, which was some years before
their full term, they set themselves, as you perceive,
to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of
their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at
him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off.
Is there anything further which I can explain, Dr.
Trevelyan?"
"I think you have made it all remarkable clear," said
the doctor. "No doubt the day on which he was
perturbed was the day when he had seen of their
release in the newspapers."
"Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest
blind."
"But why could he not tell you this?"
"Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character
of his old associates, he was trying to hide his own
identity from everybody as long as he could. His
secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring
himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he
was still living under the shield of British law, and
I have no doubt, Inspector, that you will see that,
though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of
justice is still there to avenge."
Such were the singular circumstances in connection
with the Resident Patient and the Brook Street Doctor.
From that night nothing has been seen of the three
murderers by the police, and it is surmised at
Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of
the ill-fated steamer Norah Creina, which was lost
some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese
coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The
proceedings against the page broke down for want of
evidence, and the 'Brook Street Mystery', as it was
called, has never until now been fully dealt with in
any public print.
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